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Monthly Archives: May 2014


This is what a Dutch friend said after reading the Grillisma short story:

Ik begrijp niet al te veel van die verhalen van je, er zit een hoop Grieks in en het is nogal chaotisch, nogal nachtmerrieachtig.

Maar dat is dan ook de bedoeling neem ik aan 🙂

EXACTLY! Someone who really knows me referring to my short stories as “incomprehensible”, “chaotic” and “nightmarish” is the best compliment imaginable.

drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou


normal dream #1: the stolen floppy disks

13:41 20-5-2014

Hey there lurker, this week I have something completely different for you.

Last night I had a dream about you. As I wrote in my essay, I had a couple of nightmares listening to your music, one of which I described in the essay. This was the first regular dream I had in which you yourself actually appeared. It was a funny dream IMO, and very very apt, so here it is, for your lurking pleasure and amusement:

In this dream, you and I were both 10 years younger, possibly even younger, in our very early twenties. I dreamt I was in your parents’ house together with a large group of people, many young people and even some kids, all of whom I didn’t know. I don’t know the reason we were there. Your parents’ house was huge, like an 18th century mini-castle. At one of the top floors I would look outside the window and see a huge green estate spreading out around the castle, with perfectly kept trees lining the backyard and a creek. Oh yes, the Voulgarises were basically living in the equivalent of a Lutton Hoo in my dream. In the far distance I could see the edges of the sprawling city. I climbed up the wooden stairs going all the way up to your private room, which was in the attic of the house. There were no straight walls in your room at all because it had been build alongside the roof, so all the walls were slanted. The room was sparsely decorated, made up entirely of dark ocre wood lining the floor and the walls, which gave it a warm, golden feel I would not associate with you at all (since you describe your room as “dark and cold” in one of your songs). There was a huge iron desk along one side of the room with all kinds of electronic pieces of equipment inside their covers pushed to the back of the desk, and the large monitor of an old model PC on the left side of the desk. You weren’t in your room, so I decided to wait for you there. I don’t know why I was there waiting for you and no reason was given, as is often the case in dreams. Bored, I noticed a huge pile of audio compact disks scattered on the floor next to a cd player. I sat down before the cd-player, put the headphones on and began going through the pile of cds looking for those cds with your favourite songs (in my dream you had just posted your list of favourite songs on Facebook, and I wanted to hear as many of the songs on that list as I could find). There were many “Best of” compilations amongst the pile, Elvis, the Doors, Blues compilations, female black singers from the 1950s I did not recognize. As I progressed through the list of your favourite songs, I had to admit: “Shit, he really does have a great taste in music.”. The curious thing about this dream was that while I was listening to your cds, I was hearing actual songs I had never heard before in my head, and they were entire songs, I could distinctly hear the voices and make out all the words, but once I woke up I couldn’t remember anything. I had a desire to rip the cds and copy my favourite songs from your cds so that I could keep them for myself. (This part of the dream was so real, when I woke up I had to double-check for a second I hadn’t actually stolen any music of yours…). I looked over at your PC, reasoning I could rip the cds and get the songs there, but of course I did not have the password to access your operating system to start ripping cds, so instead I spontaneously began stealing your cds in order to rip them at home. I didn’t even bother to figure out how I was going to return all the stolen cds to you, or what excuse I was going to have come up with for stealing your cds upon returning them. I didn’t care, I was stuffing literal handfuls of cds into a leather bag I apparently had with me, filling the bag to the rim with your cds. I pulled the zipper and just as I was ready to bug out of your room with a bag full of your cds, hoping to exit your house as quickly as I could lest someone notice me, I heard your voice downstairs. Your room in the attic was built in such a way that I could run out the door and there was a balcony that allowed me to look all the way down past the other floors to the main floor, and I could see that indeed, there you were with some other young people. I ran back into your room, opened the bag and began removing the cds I had stolen. I could hear you already coming up the stairs, but I could not remove the stolen cds from my bag fast enough to form a pile on the floor similar to the one you had left behind. In a fit of desperation, I decided to empty my bag on your desk, scattering cds all over the desk amongst your stuff and my own stuff that was still in the bag. I threw my empty leather bag into a corner of the room to make it seem innocuous, and I walked over to the cd player, striking a pose pretending to walk over to the desk to pick up a new cd to listen to. That’s how you caught me just as you walked into your room. We did not introduce or greet, and you were not angry or shocked to find me there in your room. You walked over to your desk, stared at the piled up chaos of cds and things, and frowned. Not looking at me, you asked: “What is this?”. I answered: “You weren’t here, I was waiting for you, I decided to listen to some of your cds.”. To that pile of steaming bullshit, you responded in a purely practical way: “Just make sure you tidy up a little, I don’t want to have this huge mess in my room.”. That’s all you had to say. You left your room, and went back downstairs. In the mean time I thanked my lucky stars you bought my lies and didn’t suspect me of stealing your music. Overcome with guilt I immediately began stacking up the scattered cds on your desk into neat little stacks, while picking out my stuff and your stuff amongst the pile and putting those away. Once I was done I took my bag, intending to leave this castle as soon as possible. Downstairs, your mother came over to me just as I meant to sneak out. Again, we did not introduce or greet eventhough we’ve never exchanged a word in our lives, apparently she already knew who I am and also knew my whole backstory, so she asked me: “Γιατί, νομίζεις, σε κυνηγάει η αστυνομία;”. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of accusation or irony in her question, she seemed sincerely curious, so I answered her, with a semblance of logic that is truly uncanny considering the fact that this was in a dream, honestly and sincerely in Greek saying: “Πραγματικά δεν ξέρω γιατί. Δεν έχω την ιδέα ότι τιμωρούμαι για αυτά που έκανα. Ίσος να με κυνηγάνε πολύ απλά γιατί είμαι Ελληνίδα. Είχε βγει εκεινον τον καιρό το AIVD (= Ολλανδική Μυστική Υπηρεσία) και έκανε προπαγάνδα στο internet ότι δήθεν Ελληνες αναρχικοί ειχαν έρθει στην Ολλανδία και σκόπευαν να κάνουν τρομοκρατικες επιθέσεις στο Amsterdam.”. To that your mother said: “Ααα.”, as if she completely understood what I was talking about. She then walked away to speak to some of the other people visiting her castle.
A western-European looking woman who I understood was the personal secretary of your mom and dad, a slender blonde with short hair, asked all the young people to gather around her desk, she wanted to show them something that was apparently of interest to all the young people. Holding up a piece of paper with printed letters framed on a stand, she says: “We have in-house penalties for family members who remove videos from the family collection and do not return them on time. Alexander is the worst late returner, so his penalty is the highest of all the family members.”. Indeed, according to the frame the secretary was holding up for us to see, your mom and dad paid a penalty of 5 euros for not returning a video to the family collection on time, whereas your penalty was a whooping 45 euors. According to another document the secretary showed us, your total sum of penalties was 668 euros. Later I had a moment alone with you. Leaning on your couch. I told you: “You are fined 45 euros for handing in a video late?! That’s like being a prisoner in your own house!”. You didn’t respond, you were just looking at me, frowing, with a sad look on your face that says, “Now you know what I’m talking about.”.

At this point the entire group of young people including yourself was magically transported to a dark, pitch black cave. Emerging from the cave there was a stream before us, with huge rocks along the edges of the stream. The challenge was to climb over the rocks along the stream in order to get back to the castle. I followed you because you were the only one who already knew the path over the rocks, but you were really fast and I could barely keep up with you, diving quickly in and out of little pools to swim to the other side only to begin climbing over the rocks again. You joined a girl that was ahead of you even, you knew one another and seemed familiar, smiling and whispering to eachother as you continued climbing over the rocks. I was right behind you two, but you didn’t seem to notice me, which I used to my advantage because I wanted to see where this would lead. The two of you together were just plain too fast for me and I quickly lost you amongst the rocks, so I went back joined the rest of the group.

[Lots of other stuff happened in the dream at this point not including you, but the other group of people who were playing games around your parents’gigantic estate. Eventhough the dream itself was not a nightmare, there just had to be a nightmarish sequence where a stupid little girl was atop of a huge pole with a cat in her arms, which she dropped down the pole from a great hight, the cat screatching as it plummeted down to earth. The cat broke all its legs as a result of that fall, but the girl who climbed down the pole did not bother to attend to her injured cat, she just left the cat there to suffer its 4 broken legs, unable to move. The stupid little girl blankly stared up at the rest of us as if to say: “Like, what did I do? I don’t know what to do now and frankly I don’t care.”. But I disgress. Here is the end of the dream.]

Returning to my own home with my bag, I discovered that I didn’t manage to fully empty the bag of everything I had stolen from you. Inside the bag I found a soft carton box filled with 3,5 inch black floppy disks. From the written descriptions on the floppy labels, 8 char titles like “Elis”, “Shawn”, “Jack off”, “Hot sluts”, I can tell that these are tiny, pixelated, barely one minute long porno excerpts, the ones that teenage and adolescent boys used to download at the advent of the internet before the widespread use of broadband and satelite. IRL I would have been upset at you downloading internet porn, but in my dream I thought it was oddly endearing and amusing that while trying to steal all your music I was now stuck with your jackoff stash instead. For a moment I negotiated the temptation to check the actual contents of the floppies, but I was concerned about screwing up the date-stamps by accessing the contents, so despite my curiosity I decided to not view the porn. Then I was pondering how on earth I was going to return these floppy disks to you with a credible explanation for how these ever ended up in my bag. My first solution to this problem was: “Don’t say or admit anything! These are old floppies, he might have forgotten all about them and might not even notice that they are missing!”. But, “What if he does notice them missing? I was the only one in his room going through his stuff, he will suspect me of stealing them, and then we will have a commotion about this.”. I woke up before I managed to figure out what to do to return your floppy disks without incriminating myself.

And there you go. This was my dream about visiting your parents’ house, sneaking in your room, listening to your favourite music, deciding to steal your cds so that I could rip all the great music I was hearing, failing to steal your cds but ending up unwittingly stealing your teenage jackoff stash of floppies. I don’t know about you, but I thought this was a pretty amusing dream. At the same time it makes me incredibly sad that I am now actually dreaming normal dreams about you. Not that I want to go back to having nightmares, but I don’t want to normalize or domesticate you, or my anger towards you. I don’t want to be in your house, or in your room, or talking to your mom, or trying to keep up with you, and I really don’t want to steal your favourite music only to end up with something I really don’t want. So please stay out of dreams. Please stay out of my dreams, if you can.

14:43 20-5-2014

drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

Remember how back in the old days MTV used to show little art school short movies as filler in between the music videos? One of these was about a guy who lived in a house with a colony of cockroaches. The name of the short was “Joe’s Apartment”. One night he brings home a girl, and while at first the cockroaches are cheering him on, they eventually interfere significantly with his date who runs out the door screaming as the cockroaches drop from a lamp hanging from the ceiling onto her lap. That was the first thing that came to mind when I read Alexander Voulgaris’rant in an interview about being chased around by cockroaches whatever neigborhood he moves into in Athens. I imagined το Γρύλισμα in that sense. Also because he described his album American Unicorn in the online promo like this: “It’s The Applegates, a family of cockroaches transformed into humans in order to flood the american suburbs.”



He says: ανθρώπους να παίζουν πινγκ πονγκ με μάτια
She says: You know what saddens me about this particular line from this movie review? That you probably wrote this just as I was writing the story below about your eyes, your hands and the girl next to you.

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Your eyes, your hands and the girl next to you (short story)

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The girl next to you is talking non-stop. It was her first shoot, there is a lot to talk about, but she does all the talking and you say nothing. You are Lou Reed, just there, because you know nothing drives a chick more crazy than a man icing her. These girls put on a raunchy air because they think you like that, but every time you look them in the eye you see a brittle ego silently crying out for help. How desperate they must be to reach out to someone like you for validation. Κύριε δεν πειράζει, κύριε μην σε νοιάζει. Το Γρύλισμα jumps upon your lap and begins crawling up your shirt towards your face, leaving a slimy trail behind. The girl notices and asks whether you spilled soup on your shirt. Instead of telling the truth you lie once again and you say: “Yes, it’s soup, I am a bit clumsy with spoons, I’d rather bring the soup bowl to my face and swallow the soup the way the Japanese used to do.”. Το Γρύλισμα sucks out your left eyeball and chews on it. “Go ahead and suck out the other one.”, you whisper, “I am blind anyway, I can miss ’em both for the sake of symetry.”. Το Γρύλισμα puts its mouth over your other eye and slurps it out. Thank Gawd there aren’t any drinking straws nearby this time, can you imagine what you must’ve looked like with a drinking straw sticking out of your emptied eye-socket? All you can think of as you go blind forever is the scene from Kill Bill 2 where The Bride plucks Elle Driver’s last remaining eye right out of her skull during a swordfight somewhere in a trailer the middle of nowhere. Elle Driver loses her shit on the bathroom floor, smashing into mirrors, screaming: “Bitch, I will kill you.”. You could be doing the same thing, losing your shit on the floor screaming “Γρύλισμα, I will kill you”, but you don’t because you don’t want to scare the girl next to you, she is young and new and you consider her an asset, you would like to cast her in another movie so you keep your cool and act professionally. The Bride squishes Elle Driver’s eye with her bare foot on the floor, which is such a waste of good nutrition, she should’ve fed the eye to το Γρύλισμα instead, she must have one of her own, or maybe Tarantino has one, though he’s wealthy so he’s probably feeding το Γρύλισμα του all it needs and keeping it fat, bloated and satisfied. One should never waste food in the midst of an economic depression, you never know where you next meal might come from. “Τώρα δεν είμαι πια ο τρόμο-Ορφέας, τώρα είμαι o τρόμο-Όμηρος.”, and you need an epic horror story to sing verses about that future generations will learn in school in 2500 years’ time. With your eyes missing you are reminded of Story of an Eye by Georges Bataille. Not that you’ve actually read that book but you already know most of the story because every girl you’ve ever met has read it and always wants to talk to you about it as if you’ve read it too. You blame yourself because you sang: “This is the story of how my eyes changed.” in one of your more popular songs. Some of these girls ask you whether you’ve ever thought about filming Bataille’s story, and would you please like to consider them for the female lead. If the cinema were truly liberated like it was once long ago in the 1970s, Martin Scorsese would’ve already adapted Story of an Eye for the big screen instead of some lame costume drama like The Age of Innocence, and no one would’ve asked you whether you’d like to film it yourself because everyone would be busy watching Scorsese’s Story of an Eye. Not that you would mind doing your own version, in fact once you did apply for film-funding in France hoping to make a huge French-Greek co-production. Story of an Eye would’ve been a good option to bring to the table, but the French Film Fund only funds French film-makers so you were out of luck as a Greek bourgie trash nobody with a resume consisting of a handful of Todd Solondz rip offs, a huge glaring gap, and then some weird-ass dystopian sci-fi almost no one can sit through. You even cautiously left out all your trash-movies and porno-movies from your resume fearing that listing those would prejudice the board of the French Film Fund against you, but this cover-up of the true extent of your output still didn’t help to get you funds. Besides, you’re now in the S&M porno business, not in the horror porno business, or the disrobed costume drama business, and as a professional pornographer you have to deliver a specific product so that people know what they are paying for. Sometimes you get confused with the genre-mixing yourself. You enjoy the absolute darkness of not seeing anything at all for a change. The girl next to you cannot tell a thing because as far as she’s concerned you are still looking at her with the same frozen stare you had before το Γρύλισμα sucked your eyes out. “Πρέπει να σε νιώσω!” you exclaim, and to your surprise she takes your hands and puts them on her breasts. Instead of feeling the irritated nipples you were shooting earlier in the day through her shirt you feel sharp, pointy teeth the size of ivory tusks. Το Γρύλισμα, mouth wide open, is breathing into your face, the stench has the whiff of your eyeballs. You place your hands on it’s tongue. As soon as it senses the sour taste of your dirty hands it briefly recoils with a shiver of the tongue, then instantly locks its jaws tight. You feel your hands break away from your body at the wrists. You enjoyed hands melting away like candlewax in an acid bath of insect vomit in Cronenberg’s The Fly much better than this rather uninspired version of losing your hands. “Δεν έχω χέρια να γυρίσω την σελίδα ούτε μάτια να αντικρίσω την ελπίδα.”.


Kill Bill, The Fly, Story of an Eye,

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

Various songs and Facebook entries by The Boy.



The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Grillisma (short story) 13MAY2014

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

(c) 2014 all rights reserved

«Έχεις απίστευτο κώλο.», whispers a girl into your ear after the test audience screening of your next science fiction movie. You were hoping for constructive criticism but compliments of any kind are always welcome. Το Γρύλισμα agrees, dives straight into your underwear, emerges with your two butt cheeks and throws them onto the barbecue grill. The smell of your ass getting roasted over hot coals makes you hungry.
“Have you ever been to a vegan BBQ? I have.”, says το Γρύλισμα, chewing on a drumstick stolen from your pianodrumset. “Oh, it was so miserable. I ended up eating every vegan at the BBQ. I did them a favour, really. They were tastier than the food.”.
The girl caresses your neck. “I have told you why I attend vegan μπάρμπεκιους. Vegans are natural born masochists. How else can you go through life when you’re absolutely sure that 98% of the people around you are serial killers and rapists because they eat dead animals and drink “rape-juice”? Only a born masochist would opt for such a life. When you are a professional S&M pornographer like I am, that’s who you are looking for. Masochistic girls are over-represented amongst vegans and they are the first to admit they are σκέτες γαμιόλες. Vegans can’t fuck 98% of the serial killers and rapist-juicers around them, so they are sexually deprived and deprivation makes one depraved. Even separatist lesbians have the statistics more on their side when it comes to dating than these vegans do. It is for this reason that some of my best S&M performers are militant animal lovers I picked up at vegan BBQs. Look at Marina Ann Hantzis. It’s no wonder that the woman who performed the most bestial sex scenes is in reality such an animal lover, she identified with and behaved exactly like a filthy beast of the field in every single one of her movies. My kind of girl. Things like drinking urine, when you are a vegan doing that is immensely preferable to drinking rape-juice. Licking a toilet seat as part of a scene in pornography is also vegan.”. The girl’s tongue is awfully close to the absolutely disgusting trace of your lips now. You turn away. You keep growing a thick beard to make your face resemble the hairy bush on your arms in order to keep girls like this at bay, to no avail because girls like furry animals.
«Να την φαω κι’αυτην;» asks το Γρύλισμα.
«Μόνο αν συνεχίζει να συνεργάζεται με τον Soderbergh. Όταν σταμάτησε να κάνει πορνό έγινε άχρηστη. Τι μαλακία ήταν το The Juliette Society. Κουτσουλοχαρτο για το κλουβί του πουλιού. Κυριολεκτικά birdcage liner. Αν το έκανε ταινία θα ηταν τουλάχιστον κάτι.».
«Τι θα’ θελες να δοκιμάσεις απ’ το BBQ;», το Γρύλισμα is already eyeing the other drumstick, which you forbid because you need at least one drumstick to be able to play the pianodrum.
«Έναν μονόκερο καπνιστό.», you say after a while. «Ας πεινάσουμε λίγο ακόμα. Δεν θα φάμε άλογο εμείς.».
«Is it phallic envy γιατί σου έφαγα το dick σου;»
«Ισως. It’s Mia Sara who wants to kill the Unicorn and let us all sink into darkness afterwards. Καταπιες ποτέ το κέρατο;».
«Αυτό δεν καταπίνεται με τίποτα.».
Your girlfriend comes over. The girl has her arms around you and doesn’t see her. Should you warn the girl about your girlfriend or let things take their natural course? You’re an asshole so you do the latter.
«Ντιλντο γίνεται;». You pose the question out loud so that your girlfriend can hear you.
«Ρωτάς εμένα; Ρωτήστε καμιά από τις γαμιολες σου.», shurgs το Γρύλισμα, giving you a why-me look.
You turn to the girl. «Γαμιόλα, εσυ τι λες;».
“Unicorn dildos are not vegan. Toilet licking is. Drinking urine is vegan and is preferable to drinking rape-juice.”.
«Μπράβο γαμιόλα, το’ ξερα ότι είσαι έξυπνη. And baby you only dream of unicorns in your sleep. Από’ δώ το κορίτσι μου και απο εκεί το Γρύλισμα μου.».
“Have you had a piece of my boyfriend’s ass yet, γαμιόλα;”, asks your girlfriend, somewhat agitated. You like it when girls are fighting over you like this, you fantasize you’re Axl Rose in the Don’t Cry music video with chicks on the floor beating one another up over you. You are more of an Axl than an Alex anyway. Axl plays the piano, Axl covers a song by the crazed hippie cult leader whose crazed cult-members butchered the pregnant wife of your favourite film-maker which resulted in him turning into a predatory pedophile, Axl went into psychotherapy and was taking lithium for a while, the similarities are endless. Pretty Tied Up could’ve been your own song. Like you, Axl was such an insufferable bastard that only a smack junkie in a strapless bra would agree to be in a band with Axl, but only for a short while because even the smack addict had enough of Axl in the end and bugged out to the UK.
“I heard he was getting grilled by the critics after the test screening αλλά είχα άλλα στο μυαλό μου. I am here to talk business with your boyfriend. Είμαι μια σοβαρή ηθοποιός.». She says that with her arms still around you, nibbling away on a carrot. There you are at your BBQ with your girlfriend, the girl, the grill, το Γρύλισμα, and from the corner of your eye you spot the blogger, incognito with a hoodie taking notes and snapping pictures, party-crashing your test screening. How did she survive the blogger holocaust? Why didn’t she spontaneously combust walking down the street like all the other bloggers? Το Γρύλισμα is already crawling across the room in her direction, mouth wide open. The blogger habitually reaches into her pocket and pulls out a T-bone steak. Definitely not a vegan, she. She holds it up before το Γρύλισμα and says: “You. Dead meat.”.


Various Facebook entries, promos and song lyrics by The Boy.

Why Did Sasha Grey Exit Pornography?

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.


The Atheist Asshole: Couple’s Counseling

This is one of the many ways I imagine το Γρύλισμα whenever I write stories about it. I think this video needs to be taught as part of gender studies courses.

drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou


The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events. Απ’το μυαλο μου την εβγαλα.

Blogger Holocaust (short story) 

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou (c) 2014 all rights reserved

It’s just unbelievable, the crap bloggers write about you. Whenever the bloggers listen to your music το Γρύλισμα turns into airborne nano-particles, enters their bloodstream and screws with their brain because it bioaccumulates in the neurotransmitter pathways with unforseen results. Your music is considered a biohazard for this reason and that’s why you turned to film-making instead. There is this blogger who writes endless rants about your cinematic pedophilia advocacy, whatever the hell that means. Your movies aren’t about fucking children, your movies are about wanting to but not being able to, it’s not the same thing GawdDamnit. Once το Γρύλισμα entered her bloodstream like a virus and burst through the blood-brain barrier like a head grenade that never stopped exploding that blogger went seriously crackers and began writing slash fiction about yourself and το Γρύλισμα. Not very amusing, in fact, it was so frightening you made an appointment with your lawyer to make a will in case this blogger mistook you for Andy Warhol and decided to go all Valerie Solanas over your ass. Το ηταν το πρώτο blog που αγγιζε το θέμα της δολοφονίας μουσικων για πολιτικούς λόγους και οταν τον σκοτωσαν πολλοι ρωτούσαν την blogger αν νιωθει υπευθυνη για τη δολοφονια. Another blogger wrote this about you: “Αυτό που κεντρίζει κατά μείζονα λόγο το ενδιαφέρον μου είναι ότι τις δυο- τρεις φορές που έτυχε να τον συναντήσω (όχι σε live, σε άσχετες περιστάσεις) και παρότι ποτέ δεν έτυχε να μιλήσουμε, μου φάνηκε σε ικανό βαθμό “αλλού”, χαμένος όχι σε έναν απαραίτητα δικό του κόσμο, αλλά σίγουρα σε έναν κόσμο παράλληλο με αυτόν που σε κανονικούς ή ανώμαλους ρυθμούς κινείται γύρω του. Δεν του μίλησα γιατί ήμουν σίγουρος ότι δεν έχουμε τίποτε να πούμε και κανέναν κώδικα επικοινωνίας μεταξύ μας, χωρίς να τρέφω αυταπάτες ότι αυτό αλλάζει επειδή λατρεύω τέσσερα-πέντε από τα άλμπουμ που έχει ηχογραφήσει.”. Which was corroborated by yet another blogger: “Ίσως τον πετύχετε στα Εξάρχεια να περιδιαβαίνει βλοσυρός και απόμακρος, όπως έχει γίνει το 95% των Νεοελλήνων. Γι’ αυτό και δικαιούται να μιλάει για πάρτη τους.”. These two bloggers are making you sound like a brooding dark genius, which you think you are, so they were licked across the face by το Γρύλισμα in appreciation, they really were, they just didn’t notice because bloggers are sensually autistic. One blogger saw you wandering around in Exarchia, wearing the same clothes for days in a row looking disgusted and wrote: “Επαιξαν ρόλο και οι δύο-τρεις φορές που τον είδα να τριγυρνάει στα εξάρχεια, φορώντας ακριβώς τα ίδια ρούχα και έχοντας μια έκφραση αηδίας στο πρόσωπό του. Σκέφτηκα πως αυτός ο τύπος ίσως είναι πραγματικά τσαντισμένος, ίσως το μίσος του είναι τόσο μεγάλο που τα τραγούδια του δεν θα μπορούσαν να είναι λιγότερο περίεργα.”. Thankfully you’re not famous enough to grab the attention of the fashion bloggers, they’d be ripping the clothes off your semi-skinny but basketball-toned back with their reviews of your wardrobe. Literally the only item in your wardrobe right now that the fashion bloggers would want for themselves is your collection of faded Guns N’Roses t-shirts, which you can still wear because you haven’t grown an inch since the early 1990s. If you ever run out of government funding for your next movie, you can always turn your Facebook wall into a black market for 2nd hand Guns N’Roses t-shirts, they would go like hot cakes. The worst bloggers are the Athens Indymedia anarchists, who are a sizeable group and have the luxury of crowdsourcing their research. All these bloggers are scared of you, it’s true, that’s why they are blogging, because that’s what cowards do. Ούτε ένα βήμα, μου λες. Ούτε ένα βήμα δεν κάνεις. Τα μολύβια κρύβονται απο τρόμο. Ενωσε τα και τρύπησε με ρυθμικά. Τόσο κακή είναι η βια πια, μαμα; Τόσο unconstitutional strafrechtelijk είναι να λεω ενα childfucker, childfucker, ενα psychopath, psychopath, ενα ecoterrorist, ecoterrorist, ενα fraud, fraud, ενα liar, liar, ενα cheat, cheat, ενα hanging judge, hanging judge, ενα φασίστα, φασίστα και να τρέχουν λυσσασμένα σάλια απ’τα ούλα μου; Some cowards get into transgression art to cover up their cowardice, some cowards blog about the transgression art cowards and that’s the way the world is. You pray to the Gawd that doesn’t exist for the day an angry blogger stops blogging and instead jumps onstage to punch you in the face before a show, it would be a welcome change from the norm. “Θα’ θελα να αρχίσω να πλακώνομαι όπως όταν ήμουν μικρός και να μην έχω τους γονείς μου να μου λένε ότι είναι κακό, είμαι πολύ υπέρ της βίας σε λογικό πλαίσιο, το θεωρώ πολύ υγιές.”, you hiss in disgust wondering around in your neighborhood. “Θέλεις πραγματικά να σου σπάσω τα μούτρα;” asks το Γρύλισμα. “Όχι, αλλά άμα θέλεις να σπάσεις τα μούτρα των bloggers, αυτό θα το εκτιμούσα πολύ. Πρέπει να κάνουμε κάτι γι’ αυτους τους bloggers.”. Το Γρύλισμα gets very excited now, this is right up its alley. “Θέλεις να τους εξολοθρέψω, έναν έναν;”. “Όχι έναν έναν, όλους ταυτόχρονα να ξεμπερδεύουμε. Θέλω ένα blogger holocaust.”.

The next day dozens of bloggers spontaneously combust walking down the street. The government claims terrorism and steps up security measures, your mortal enemy the Greek Orthodox Church claims it’s a sign from Gawd and organizes mass-conversions. You smile to yourself. The only thing worse than a Hitler, Mao or Stalin-esque mass murderer is a mass murderer no one suspects. Το Γρύλισμα is a desk-killer without the desk. Motherfucker, it’s a perfect crime. Imagine what would happen if you went really big with this.


Perfect Crime by Guns N’Roses

19.11.2009 | 00:20 BLAST FROM THE PAST Αλέξανδρος Βούλγαρης (The Boy)

The Boy | Ηλιοθεραπεια
By steliott· On August 31, 2011

The Boy Ηλιοθεραπεία(Εξώστης) 19/07/2011

ΔΕΝ σε όλα από τον The Boy Με ένα μάθημα σύγχρονης ελληνικής ιστορίας

Various Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.